Scumble by Ingrid Law Page A

I might have some explaining of my own to do.
    At that moment, if Grandpa Bomba had had the strength to make the earth open wide and swallow me whole, I would have let him do it.

Chapter 8
    W E ALL WATCHED THE SHERIFF PARK his truck and climb out of the hole where a door should have been. The last of the dust from the barn settled, revealing the dented silver yowl of the moon, and the basin of the ranch became a patchwork quilt of moonlight and moving shadows.
    Built like a pro wrestler long past prime, with muscles gone the way of beer and Jell-O, the sheriff strode forward, his gait a cautious saunter. As he pulled out a flashlight and aimed the beam in our direction, Uncle Autry moved to intercept him.
    â€œSheriff Brown—Jonas—what a surprise.” Autry offered his hand to the officer, greeting him like an old friend.
    â€œWhat in blazes happened here, Autry? Your barn, it . . .” The sheriff trailed off, removing his hat and pointing it at the rubble.
    â€œIt fell down.” Uncle Autry nodded, appraising the wreckage alongside the sheriff. My uncle crossed his arms and clucked his tongue once with a shake of his head, as if to say: They sure don’t build barns the way they used to.
    â€œI knew you were having a party tonight,” the sheriff continued. “But you’re supposed to raise the roof, not knock it in.” He panned the beam of his flashlight up the river toward the Bug House. “At least your spare’s still standing. Is everyone okay?” The flashlight’s beam came back around, moving between the wreckage and the scattered family members, some of whom were already leaving, shy of too much unwanted attention.
    â€œDolly’s jars—all gone!” I could hear Great-aunt Jules bemoaning the loss of her sister’s savvy life’s work as she snuck toward her car. “Her wedding jar too! What a tragedy!”
    When the light from the sheriff’s flashlight caught the still-bleeding gash in Fish’s face and the drops of red staining Mellie’s dress, he let the beam linger and fumbled for his two-way, preparing to call for help.
    â€œDon’t tell me we were the only ones who felt that earthquake, young man!” Grandpa Bomba’s voice surprised everyone as it rose, quavering, from the overstuffed armchair that now sat in the middle of the drive.
    Sheriff Brown smiled at Grandpa, raising one eyebrow.
    â€œEarthquake? No need to worry about one of those, sir. There haven’t been more than two earthquakes worth paying any mind to in Crook County in the last hundred years.”
    â€œYou’re probably right about that, Officer. You’re probably right.” Grandpa nodded and wobbled his head, but there was mischief in the old man’s eye. Grandpa sat straighter now, as if he suddenly remembered what it felt like to be twenty years younger and ten times stronger, and the ground under Jonas Brown poppled and surged, nearly knocking the officer off his feet. And whether it was the moonlight playing tricks on me, or something real, I thought I caught a glimpse of Samson Beaumont, now tall at sixteen, standing with his hand on Grandpa Bomba’s shoulder, as thin as a slip of shadow and just as transparent. But the moment I blinked, the vision was gone.
    â€œYou’ve got to watch out for them aftershocks,” Grandpa said, giving me a wink that made me wonder if he was talking to me or Sheriff Brown.
    â€œThat’s enough, Dad,” Mom told Grandpa, getting up from where she’d been crouched over me. Everyone sucked in their breath as Mom turned toward the unsuspecting sheriff. Slowly, Mom advanced on the officer, savvy smile drawn and ready.
    Dad pulled me up off the ground by my collar. “Here she goes,” he said under his breath.
    â€œSheriff,” Mom said, “why don’t you tell us what brought you here tonight so that you can continue on your way. You can see that