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I liked hearing Jerm talking about Pop that way, and I wanted to hear more. “I bumped into Otis Hickey,” I said. “Over on the swinging bridge a few weeks ago. He said my pop was down here every chance. Did he work for you?”

“Once in a while. If you could call it that.” Jerm laughed. “To Axel, fixing cars was all in a day's play. I had to bully him into taking money for it.”

“That sounds like my pop, all right.”

“How's your granddaddy?”

Ornery as a bulldog
. That's what I wanted to say. But I didn't. “Same as always,” I said. “He don't do much except holler a lot about war and how we ought to kill the Germans. And now there's the Japanese to be mad at. They killed Russell Crump at Pearl Harbor. Did you know Russell?”

Jerm nodded and his clear blue eyes clouded over. “I could tell you what that boy ate for breakfast. Biscuits with mustard and livermush. He was a good fella and his heart was in the right place when he enlisted. But he was too young to die.” Jerm stopped, looked at me. “How old are
you?
Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

I shook my head. “Naw. I'm fixing to get me a job at the mill.”

Jerm squinted at me, and I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn't going along with my idea. “You should be in school.”

“I can read and write and do figures,” I said. “And the things they make me sit through in that class don't have a thing to do with getting along in this world. My momma needs me to help make our way.”

Jerm nodded. “Is that what she says?”

“I'm fixing to do her proud. Show her what kind of man I can be.” I started backing toward the door. “I better shove in the clutch and step on the gas. Can't find a job sitting around like this.”

I rode right by Aunt Lillian and Aunt Lucille's. They lived on that ledge between the road and the river. From there it was just a few minutes to the mill.

There was a small brick building to the side of it with a sign that said
Office
. After being in the bright sunshine it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to seeing inside. “Can I help you?” asked a woman standing in front of a filing cabinet.

I took off my hat. “Yes, ma'am. I need work. With the war on, I figured production is picking up. I can work hard. And maybe you knew my pop. Axel Bledsoe.”

She shook her head. “I'll tell the boss you're here.” Just past her desk was a door. She opened it and stuck her head inside. “Mr. Hefner, do you know Axel Bledsoe?”

“He's dead,” came a deep voice from inside that office.

“Oh.” The woman turned red as a beet pickle then. “Uh, I mean. His son is here.”

“I see.” The man in the office coughed—a nervous cough—like he was embarrassed that I probably heard him say Pop was dead. “Send the boy in,” he said. But then I heard his chair scraping the floor, and just when the lady motioned me in, he appeared at the door.

The man stuck out his hand. “Mark Hefner,” he said. “And you're like a carbon copy of your daddy.”

March 1942

Mr. Hefner pointed to a ladder-back chair, so I took it. He perched on the edge of his desk. “Axel was a genius with machines and I wanted him to work for me. But he didn't like this mill. Said he couldn't breathe in here.”

“Pop liked country air,” I said. “And farming and fixing cars. But
I'm
looking for work, sir. And he taught me all kinds of stuff. I fixed a car on the way over here today.”

Mr. Hefner nodded. “Sounds like you're a chip off the old block.” When he said that, I just knew he was going to hire me. But he started talking about Granddaddy. “I heard Hammer is staying at your house now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brookford isn't the same place without him.”

I wasn't sure how to take that, since I knew if Granddaddy left us right now, our house wouldn't be the same either. But that would be a good thing. Maybe Mr. Hefner was thanking me for taking him out of there. “Well, he thinks Brookford is the cat's pajamas.”

Mr. Hefner leaned forward. “Here's a little secret. Hammer didn't actually like Brookford when he was here. And Brookford didn't much like
him
. But still, he was part of the scenery, and a lot of rough fellows live here. A mill village isn't all bad, but it has its drawbacks. Your daddy did right to get out of this place before he started a family.”

Was he saying my pop left because he didn't think Brookford was a fitting place to raise his young'un? I didn't ask the question, but Mr. Hefner seemed to be reading my mind.

“Axel didn't want this life for you.” He leaned forward and tapped his pen on the desk. “I can't hire you, Junior. For one thing, if I have an opening, I'll hire someone from Brookford as a matter of principle.”

So Granddaddy wasn't making that part up!

“But here's the most important reason. Axel Bledsoe wasn't cut out for life in a mill village. He headed out to the country because he was trying to do better by himself and those who came after. I suspect you'll do best to stay there, too.”

Mr. Hefner stood, and I could tell that the discussion was finished. Evidently he thought I was just a country boy who couldn't make it even in a small town like Brookford. If I came there to get me some respect, I sure hadn't found it. He held the door for me and I walked past the secretary's desk and kept on going out into the chilly air and bright sunshine.

A horse and wagon clomped up the street, and a car pulled into Stewart Elrod's gas station across the way. Up the hill, on the porch of one of the little wooden houses, a woman opened the door and called for her young'un to come back inside.

It was all I could do not to go peek inside the mill. But I climbed on Grover and rode back out through Brookford. I didn't look to the left when I went by my aunts' houses, and I didn't slow down at Jerm Foster's garage either.

But I stopped in at Whitener's store in Mountain View. Otis Hickey was leaving with a big dill pickle in his hand as I was coming in the door. “Hey,” he said. “I remember you. Axel's boy.” Then he kept on going. “Gotta get a wiggle on. Momma is having a bad day with her arthritis.”

I asked Miss Whitener if she could put me to work.

She shook her head. “I wish I could, Junior,” she said. “But I've got my children to help me—after school hours.” She looked hard at me, and I could see she was disapproving. “You didn't quit school, did you?”

“I reckon I'll be getting a wiggle on too,” I said. And then I left real fast before she could ask any questions.

By the time I was home, Leroy's truck was sitting in our lane, but it appeared that he was inside talking to Momma. I figured she was crying on his shoulder about me quitting school. That meant I'd be hearing a lecture from him.

I put Grover in the barn and watered and fed him. When I headed to the house Leroy was sitting on the back steps, waiting for me.

“Your truck misbehaving?” I asked. “Need me to fix something?”

He shook his head. “She's running like a clock. Hop in.” He stood and headed for the truck, then climbed in the driver's side and waited for me to climb in the other door. “Don't worry, Bessie'll hold supper for you. I told her I was taking you for a drive.”

“Yes, sir.” He was up to something. People didn't just take drives anymore. Not with the war on and everyone trying to save wear and tear on their tires. Not to mention using up gas. I didn't want to hear any sermon he might preach about me leaving school, but I couldn't figure how to escape it. “Where we headed?”

“You name it, Junior.”

I wasn't expecting that, and what's more, I especially wasn't expecting my answer. “Hog Hill.” I mean, it's not like I thought about it before he asked. But once the words were out of my mouth I knew I wanted to see the place where Pop died.

Leroy squinted. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Unless that takes too much gas?”

He shook his head. “Watch what I do,” he said, and he cranked up the truck. He put it in reverse, eased out the clutch, and pressed on the gas. “You watching?”

“Yes, sir.” I wanted to tell him I could do that with
my eyes shut, but I didn't. He drove to Hog Hill without saying a word about school. In fact, he didn't say much of anything. Just smoked his cigarette and explained why he was downshifting, how to let out on the clutch, and other stuff I could write a book about—if I was allowed to use my left hand to do it.

Wasn't long before we were at Hog Hill and headed down the holler toward Peewee Hudson's sweet potato house. It stood there all by its solitary self with no cars or farm wagons or anything around it. “I reckon nobody's buying sweet taters this time of year,” I said. “Maybe I should've come on a Friday night when Wayne Walker and the rest of them boys would be here.”

Leroy pulled into the grass beside the block building. “Maybe,” he said. “What were you hoping to see?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I'd like to know where they found him.”

There was high grass growing in the side ditches on both sides of the road. And some bare wisteria vines hanging off some trees. I got out of the truck and walked around and tried to imagine. Was it here on this little mound? Did he stumble over that rock? Or was it over by that fence post?

There wasn't any way to tell, really. And no one there to ask. Everything was quiet as death. Only thing I heard was the sound of somebody's dog off in the distance, howling.

I turned and headed back to the truck. “Might as well go,” I said.

Leroy climbed in the passenger side. “You fixing to drive us home?” he asked.

Well, I reckon my jaw dropped near to my knees when he said that. I stopped in my tracks. “Really?”

Leroy nodded.

He didn't have to ask twice. I ran around to the driver's side of the truck and climbed in. I sure didn't need him to tell me how to crank it up. I put it in gear and eased out the clutch just like I was supposed to, but the truck jerked when I did. “Easy,” said Leroy. “Take your time and let up on the clutch the same as you push on the gas. You'll feel when it's right.”

I did what he said. At least I think I did. But I still made the truck jerk. It reminded me of trying to smoke—it looked a whole lot easier than it was. The truck was on the road then, heading toward home, and I didn't have to concentrate so much on using the clutch.

“According to the law,” I said, “I'm not old enough to drive or have a license.”

“That's what I hear,” said Leroy. “But I reckon nobody cares too much about that around here. Matter of fact, Homer Jarrett has been letting his son Ned drive to church on Sundays since the boy was nine. Far as I can tell, he hasn't been in any trouble over that.”

“Pop always said I was too young.”

“Aren't you the man of the house now?” asked Leroy. “And you've got more than your share of responsibilities. You've had them for a long time, I reckon.”

I knew what he meant. That Pop wasn't always the man of the house like he should've been and I was used to picking up his jobs. Maybe Leroy even respected me for that. I just nodded.

“In my book that makes you old enough to drive. But that's just my opinion and it's probably not worth two cents.”

I thought about all the times I'd begged Pop to let me drive and he wouldn't have anything to do with it. Now here was Leroy giving me a chance. “If you ask me,” I said, “your opinion is worth a whole lot more than a couple of pennies.”

April 1942

I was in the garden walking behind the plow when I heard the dogs barking. I looked up, and there was Dudley standing at the edge of my garden. “Whoa!” I tightened Grover's reins.

Dudley pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it up. Then he fished another out and offered it to me. “Have a smoke?” He laughed. “Or maybe you ain't been practicing.”

“What you doing here?”

“Wanna go fishing?”

“Sorry. I'm trying to put food on the table for my momma and me.”

“Catfish is food. And I know the best spot on the river for catching 'em. They don't call me Catfish for nothing. Look, I'll help you with whatever you're planting and then we'll go fishing.”

I thought about that. Would he actually lift a hand to help me in the garden? I knew Momma would sure like
some fish to fry up for supper. “All right, then,” I said. “Grab that hoe and start making some rows.”

We worked steady for an hour. I have to say, Dudley Walker could actually be useful when he put his mind to it. After we finished up, I poked my head in the back door and told Momma I was going to the river to catch us some catfish for supper.

“What about the peas you were going to plant?”

“They're in the ground, Momma. Dudley helped me.”

“Dudley?”

“From school.”

“I thought you quit school.” Her voice was bitter.

“Dudley,” I said, “come inside and meet my mother.” He stepped just inside the door. “Momma, this is Dudley Walker.”

I saw her eyes go narrow when she heard his last name. She probably knew, in an instant, that he belonged to Wayne Walker's family.

“He helped me work the garden,” I reminded her. As if that would prove Dudley wasn't as bad as his old man.

Momma sighed. “Catfish sounds real good. I'll count on it, then.”

We took off to the river and climbed down the bank by Jacob Fork Bridge. Then we waded upstream to the spot where Dudley said we'd catch some catfish sure as shooting.

There's something about sitting on a riverbank with
the smell of earth and moss and the feel of an April breeze in the air that makes you forget how you might not even like the person sitting beside you. More and more, I was thinking maybe Dudley wasn't so bad after all.