it?”
“Don’t say ‘ain’t’ — you and Lawrence goin’ huntin’?”
“Aw just fool around, I guess.”
“Where at?”
“I dunno...out around Hampton, I reckon.”
“You wantta be careful out there, with the planes comin’ in and all.”
He looked at her in surprise. “They done closed that part of it down, didn’t you know that?”
“There’s private planes still come in there...”
“If there is, I never seen ’em.”
“Well, you wantta be careful anyway with that Lawrence — is he still crazy as ever?”
“Aw he’s awright.”
“How you going to get into town?”
“Gonna ride in with Les Newgate.”
“Les goin’ in?” his mother asked, through the clothespins in her mouth, not thinking.
“Naw,” said Harold, “that’s how come I’m gettin’ a ride with him...cause he ain’t goin’ in! Ha-ha-ha!”
“Now don’t be smart,” she said without effort, then started back inside, “and you shouldn’t be sittin’ here bareheaded in the hot sun, you’ll get a stroke.”
Big Lawrence lived in the nearest town — Alvarado, population seven hundred and dwindling — six miles away. Just outside town, Les Newgate slowed the pickup and pulled over, so that he and Harold could see how they were setting up tents and booths for the Big Red Onion. This was the county’s grandest annual event. Officially, it was named the Johnson County Old Settlers’ Reunion, but the children, being unable or unwilling to pronounce it, had begun, as far back as living memory, to call it the Big Red Onion, and the grown-ups had eventually gone along.
“Wal,” said Les, “looks like they settin’ up the Onion,” and he spat a long stream of Red Man chaw from the bulge in his cheek.
“Yep,” said Harold.
“I reckon we’ll go,” said Les, “take the kids over anyhow. Leastways little Billy Bob — he’s still young enough to enjoy it. Your granddaddy gonna fiddle this year?”
The Onion featured a livestock-and-produce exhibition, a carnival of rides and games of chance, a midway of concessions featuring oddities of nature — animal and human — dancing girls, and a small-scale rodeo. But the crowning event, for adults anyway, was the Old Fiddlers’ Contest, which drew competitors from all over the Southwest — a contest which Harold’s grandfather always entered and frequently won.
“I don’t rightly know,” said Harold. “They ask him if he wanted to be in it, or be a judge. Reckon it’s ’cause his ’thritis is actin’ up — that’s what Momma says.”
“I won a five-dollar bet on him last year,” said Les.
“I know you did,” said Harold.
Les shifted into low, and they started pulling away. “Hard for a man to do his best,” he said, “when his hand stiffens up.”
“I reckon.”
“An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else too,” said Les with genial authority. “Your granddad ain’t one who likes to come in no second or third place.”
“I know it,” said Harold, looking straight ahead.
Harold reached Big Lawrence’s house by way of his neighbor’s backyard. Stepping through an open place in the fence two houses before, and cutting across, he could hear Lawrence on at the house and he saw his shadow, dark there behind the window screen.
“Ka- pow! Ka- pow! Ka- pow! ” was what he heard Big Lawrence say.
An ordinary bedroom, Texas schoolboy motif — guns, sports trophies, boxing gloves, animal skins (all small except for the deer) nailed to the wall, and photographs of ballplayers. Sitting on the bed was Big Lawrence — a raw-boned fullback type — and all down around his feet the scattered white patches lay, fallen each like a poisoned cactus-bloom, every other center oil-dark, he cleaning his rifle: .243 Savage.
Across one end of the bed, flat on his stomach, looking at an old comic book, was Crazy Ralph Wilton, while Tommy Sellers sat on the floor, back flat to the wall. Tommy Sellers was an all-county shortstop; he had baseball and
“Don’t say ‘ain’t’ — you and Lawrence goin’ huntin’?”
“Aw just fool around, I guess.”
“Where at?”
“I dunno...out around Hampton, I reckon.”
“You wantta be careful out there, with the planes comin’ in and all.”
He looked at her in surprise. “They done closed that part of it down, didn’t you know that?”
“There’s private planes still come in there...”
“If there is, I never seen ’em.”
“Well, you wantta be careful anyway with that Lawrence — is he still crazy as ever?”
“Aw he’s awright.”
“How you going to get into town?”
“Gonna ride in with Les Newgate.”
“Les goin’ in?” his mother asked, through the clothespins in her mouth, not thinking.
“Naw,” said Harold, “that’s how come I’m gettin’ a ride with him...cause he ain’t goin’ in! Ha-ha-ha!”
“Now don’t be smart,” she said without effort, then started back inside, “and you shouldn’t be sittin’ here bareheaded in the hot sun, you’ll get a stroke.”
Big Lawrence lived in the nearest town — Alvarado, population seven hundred and dwindling — six miles away. Just outside town, Les Newgate slowed the pickup and pulled over, so that he and Harold could see how they were setting up tents and booths for the Big Red Onion. This was the county’s grandest annual event. Officially, it was named the Johnson County Old Settlers’ Reunion, but the children, being unable or unwilling to pronounce it, had begun, as far back as living memory, to call it the Big Red Onion, and the grown-ups had eventually gone along.
“Wal,” said Les, “looks like they settin’ up the Onion,” and he spat a long stream of Red Man chaw from the bulge in his cheek.
“Yep,” said Harold.
“I reckon we’ll go,” said Les, “take the kids over anyhow. Leastways little Billy Bob — he’s still young enough to enjoy it. Your granddaddy gonna fiddle this year?”
The Onion featured a livestock-and-produce exhibition, a carnival of rides and games of chance, a midway of concessions featuring oddities of nature — animal and human — dancing girls, and a small-scale rodeo. But the crowning event, for adults anyway, was the Old Fiddlers’ Contest, which drew competitors from all over the Southwest — a contest which Harold’s grandfather always entered and frequently won.
“I don’t rightly know,” said Harold. “They ask him if he wanted to be in it, or be a judge. Reckon it’s ’cause his ’thritis is actin’ up — that’s what Momma says.”
“I won a five-dollar bet on him last year,” said Les.
“I know you did,” said Harold.
Les shifted into low, and they started pulling away. “Hard for a man to do his best,” he said, “when his hand stiffens up.”
“I reckon.”
“An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else too,” said Les with genial authority. “Your granddad ain’t one who likes to come in no second or third place.”
“I know it,” said Harold, looking straight ahead.
Harold reached Big Lawrence’s house by way of his neighbor’s backyard. Stepping through an open place in the fence two houses before, and cutting across, he could hear Lawrence on at the house and he saw his shadow, dark there behind the window screen.
“Ka- pow! Ka- pow! Ka- pow! ” was what he heard Big Lawrence say.
An ordinary bedroom, Texas schoolboy motif — guns, sports trophies, boxing gloves, animal skins (all small except for the deer) nailed to the wall, and photographs of ballplayers. Sitting on the bed was Big Lawrence — a raw-boned fullback type — and all down around his feet the scattered white patches lay, fallen each like a poisoned cactus-bloom, every other center oil-dark, he cleaning his rifle: .243 Savage.
Across one end of the bed, flat on his stomach, looking at an old comic book, was Crazy Ralph Wilton, while Tommy Sellers sat on the floor, back flat to the wall. Tommy Sellers was an all-county shortstop; he had baseball and
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