Byler up close on foot.”
“Good plan,” Uncle Tinsley said. “Better yet, Charlotte’s old bicycle has to be around here someplace. You could ride it into town.”
I went up to the bird wing to tell Liz about the Wyatts. She was sitting in a chair by a window, reading another book she’d found in Uncle Tinsley’s library, this one by Edgar Allan
Poe.
When I told her about the Wyatts, Liz jumped up and hugged me. “You’re trembling,” she said.
“I know, I know. I’m nervous,” I said. “What if they’re weirdos? What if they think I’m a weirdo?”
“It’ll be fine. Do you want me to come?”
“Would you?”
“Of course, Beanstalker, you weirdo. We’re in this together.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, Uncle Tinsley found the bike Mom rode as a kid. It was in the equipment shed, where he also found his old bike,
but it needed a new tire, so Liz and I decided to ride double.
Mom’s bike was a terrific Schwinn like they didn’t make anymore, Uncle Tinsley said. It had a heavy red frame, fat tires, reflectors on the wheels, a speedometer, a horn, and a
chrome rack behind the seat. Uncle Tinsley wiped it down, pumped air in the tires, oiled the chain, and drew us a map of the part of town where the Wyatts lived, explaining that it was known as the
mill hill, or just the hill. With Liz pedaling and me sitting behind her on the chrome rack, we set off for the hill.
The day was hot and sticky, the sky hazy, and the rack dug into my behind, but along the way, we rode through cool stretches of woods where the branches of these big old trees reached out all
the way across the road to create a sort of canopy, and you felt like you were going through a tunnel, with patches of sunlight occasionally flickering between the leaves.
The mill hill was in the north part of town, just past the mill, at the base of a wooded mountain. The houses were identical boxes, many of them with the original white paint
now all faded, but some had been painted blue or yellow or green or pink or had aluminum or tar-paper siding. Chairs and couches lined porches, auto parts were crammed into some of the little
yards, and one grimy house had a faded rebel flag hanging out a window. But you could see that keeping up appearances was important to a lot of the folks on the hill. Some used whitewashed tires as
planters for pansies or had colorful pinwheels spinning in the breeze or little cement statues of squirrels and dwarves. We passed one woman out sweeping her dirt yard with a broom.
The Wyatts’ house was one that clearly showed pride of ownership. The sky-blue paint was fading, but the front yard was mowed, the bushes around the foundation were evenly pruned, and
little rocks lined the path from the front steps to the sidewalk.
Liz stepped back, letting me go first. I knocked on the door, and it was opened almost immediately by a big woman with a wide mouth and twinkling green eyes. Her dark hair, which had a streak of
white, was gathered in a loose bun, and she was wearing an apron over a baggy dress. She smiled at me curiously.
“Mrs. Wyatt?” I asked.
“I reckon I am.” She was drying her hands on a dish towel. They were big hands, like a man’s. “You all selling something?”
“I’m Bean Holladay. Charlotte’s daughter.”
She let out a shriek of joy, dropped the dish towel, then wrapped her arms around me in a spine-crushing hug.
I introduced Liz, who held out her hand in greeting.
“This ain’t a shaking family, it’s a hugging family!” Mrs. Wyatt shouted as she enveloped Liz in another crushing hug. She pulled us into the house, hollering for
Clarence to come and meet his nieces. “And don’t you be Mrs. Wyatt–ing me,” she told us. “I’m your Aunt Al.”
The front door led into the kitchen. A small boy sitting at the table stared at us with wide, unblinking eyes. There was a big coal cooking stove with two freshly baked pies on top of it.
Plates, bowls, and pots were
“Good plan,” Uncle Tinsley said. “Better yet, Charlotte’s old bicycle has to be around here someplace. You could ride it into town.”
I went up to the bird wing to tell Liz about the Wyatts. She was sitting in a chair by a window, reading another book she’d found in Uncle Tinsley’s library, this one by Edgar Allan
Poe.
When I told her about the Wyatts, Liz jumped up and hugged me. “You’re trembling,” she said.
“I know, I know. I’m nervous,” I said. “What if they’re weirdos? What if they think I’m a weirdo?”
“It’ll be fine. Do you want me to come?”
“Would you?”
“Of course, Beanstalker, you weirdo. We’re in this together.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, Uncle Tinsley found the bike Mom rode as a kid. It was in the equipment shed, where he also found his old bike,
but it needed a new tire, so Liz and I decided to ride double.
Mom’s bike was a terrific Schwinn like they didn’t make anymore, Uncle Tinsley said. It had a heavy red frame, fat tires, reflectors on the wheels, a speedometer, a horn, and a
chrome rack behind the seat. Uncle Tinsley wiped it down, pumped air in the tires, oiled the chain, and drew us a map of the part of town where the Wyatts lived, explaining that it was known as the
mill hill, or just the hill. With Liz pedaling and me sitting behind her on the chrome rack, we set off for the hill.
The day was hot and sticky, the sky hazy, and the rack dug into my behind, but along the way, we rode through cool stretches of woods where the branches of these big old trees reached out all
the way across the road to create a sort of canopy, and you felt like you were going through a tunnel, with patches of sunlight occasionally flickering between the leaves.
The mill hill was in the north part of town, just past the mill, at the base of a wooded mountain. The houses were identical boxes, many of them with the original white paint
now all faded, but some had been painted blue or yellow or green or pink or had aluminum or tar-paper siding. Chairs and couches lined porches, auto parts were crammed into some of the little
yards, and one grimy house had a faded rebel flag hanging out a window. But you could see that keeping up appearances was important to a lot of the folks on the hill. Some used whitewashed tires as
planters for pansies or had colorful pinwheels spinning in the breeze or little cement statues of squirrels and dwarves. We passed one woman out sweeping her dirt yard with a broom.
The Wyatts’ house was one that clearly showed pride of ownership. The sky-blue paint was fading, but the front yard was mowed, the bushes around the foundation were evenly pruned, and
little rocks lined the path from the front steps to the sidewalk.
Liz stepped back, letting me go first. I knocked on the door, and it was opened almost immediately by a big woman with a wide mouth and twinkling green eyes. Her dark hair, which had a streak of
white, was gathered in a loose bun, and she was wearing an apron over a baggy dress. She smiled at me curiously.
“Mrs. Wyatt?” I asked.
“I reckon I am.” She was drying her hands on a dish towel. They were big hands, like a man’s. “You all selling something?”
“I’m Bean Holladay. Charlotte’s daughter.”
She let out a shriek of joy, dropped the dish towel, then wrapped her arms around me in a spine-crushing hug.
I introduced Liz, who held out her hand in greeting.
“This ain’t a shaking family, it’s a hugging family!” Mrs. Wyatt shouted as she enveloped Liz in another crushing hug. She pulled us into the house, hollering for
Clarence to come and meet his nieces. “And don’t you be Mrs. Wyatt–ing me,” she told us. “I’m your Aunt Al.”
The front door led into the kitchen. A small boy sitting at the table stared at us with wide, unblinking eyes. There was a big coal cooking stove with two freshly baked pies on top of it.
Plates, bowls, and pots were
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