seedown the hill, past Moundville, to a swampy wasteland of crumbling, abandoned houses and buildings, descending into a massive lake. You can still see the peak of a church, poking above the water about two hundred feet from shore.
“That's Sinister Bend,” I tell him. “What's left of it any-way.”
“I know. It's just amazing to see it from up here.”
When the rain began, it filled the streets and fields with water, then found the crest of the hill and sluiced down the south side of the mound into the Narrows River. The river backed up and overflowed, filling the town of Sinister Bend like a cereal bowl. Everyone here has seen the footage: water up to the roofs of the houses, and sometimes people on the roofs calling for help and waving their hands in desperation as the water came up around their legs. Even after the Army Engineers built the canals, Sinister Bend was mostly underwater. The whole town was just washed off the face of the earth.
Sturgis has finished the fries and is now peering into the bag, as if another hamburger or maybe a milk shake is hiding in the corner.
“Well,” he says as he stuffs the lunch bag into his back pocket, “guess it's back to the salt mine.”
“I think we have more break time coming to us,” I say, but he's already clambering across the roof and down the ladder, as nimble as a squirrel. I finish my burger alone, then descend to the muddy doom of an afternoon's work.
“So how was your first day of work?” my dad wants to know when he picks us up.
“Kind of boring,” I say honestly.
“It was okay,” says Sturgis.
“It could have been worse,” I add, but if there are worse jobs than digging mud in the rain for nine or ten hours, I don't even want to know what they are. I just don't want to be the whiner while Sturgis acts tough.
I kill time before dinner checking my e-mail. Besides all the spam and junk that collected while I was away, I have one message from Steve and one from Adam. Steve asks if I can play basketball tomorrow, so I write about this job I'm suddenly stuck doing. I go on a bit about how lousy it is, then delete most of it. Steve doesn't need to read all that. Instead, I just say that I'm helping out my dad all week but we can play basketball on the weekend.
Adam writes that he's going to a pro game in Kansas City and he gets to meet some of the players because of this deal they have for up-and-coming baseball players. Do I want any autographs? I rack my brain and can't think of anyone, so I tell him to surprise me.
It occurs to me after I send off the e-mails that I didn't tell either one of them about my new foster brother. I wonder if that's weird.
Dinner is fish stick casserole. It's not any better than it sounds. Sturgis puts away two or three plates while I labor over the first. He asks my dad about the details of the Rain Redirection System. My dad is only too happy to talk about the venting that keeps the plastic from inflating and the convex pleats that keep the plastic from filling up with water. Sturgis nods and takes it all in. It's pretty boring to me, but I already know a lot more about those things than I care to. Between the food and the conversation, it's a wonder I make it through dinner without going facedown in a pile of chopped fish and hash browns.
After dinner, I notice that Sturgis has unpacked his paper bags. He's lined up his paperbacks on the shelf I cleared for him, and in front of the books is a neat row of cassettes. The books mostly have dragons or spaceships on the covers. I think a few of them have dragons
and
spaceships. For that matter, so do a lot of the cassettes.
My baseball cards are in shoe boxes on top of the bookcase. I used to be obsessed with them, sorting them and resorting them and memorizing their details and making teams out of batches and pitting them against each other using dice and rules I don't remember. It's weird how you wake up one day and don't care as much anymore, but that's kind of
“That's Sinister Bend,” I tell him. “What's left of it any-way.”
“I know. It's just amazing to see it from up here.”
When the rain began, it filled the streets and fields with water, then found the crest of the hill and sluiced down the south side of the mound into the Narrows River. The river backed up and overflowed, filling the town of Sinister Bend like a cereal bowl. Everyone here has seen the footage: water up to the roofs of the houses, and sometimes people on the roofs calling for help and waving their hands in desperation as the water came up around their legs. Even after the Army Engineers built the canals, Sinister Bend was mostly underwater. The whole town was just washed off the face of the earth.
Sturgis has finished the fries and is now peering into the bag, as if another hamburger or maybe a milk shake is hiding in the corner.
“Well,” he says as he stuffs the lunch bag into his back pocket, “guess it's back to the salt mine.”
“I think we have more break time coming to us,” I say, but he's already clambering across the roof and down the ladder, as nimble as a squirrel. I finish my burger alone, then descend to the muddy doom of an afternoon's work.
“So how was your first day of work?” my dad wants to know when he picks us up.
“Kind of boring,” I say honestly.
“It was okay,” says Sturgis.
“It could have been worse,” I add, but if there are worse jobs than digging mud in the rain for nine or ten hours, I don't even want to know what they are. I just don't want to be the whiner while Sturgis acts tough.
I kill time before dinner checking my e-mail. Besides all the spam and junk that collected while I was away, I have one message from Steve and one from Adam. Steve asks if I can play basketball tomorrow, so I write about this job I'm suddenly stuck doing. I go on a bit about how lousy it is, then delete most of it. Steve doesn't need to read all that. Instead, I just say that I'm helping out my dad all week but we can play basketball on the weekend.
Adam writes that he's going to a pro game in Kansas City and he gets to meet some of the players because of this deal they have for up-and-coming baseball players. Do I want any autographs? I rack my brain and can't think of anyone, so I tell him to surprise me.
It occurs to me after I send off the e-mails that I didn't tell either one of them about my new foster brother. I wonder if that's weird.
Dinner is fish stick casserole. It's not any better than it sounds. Sturgis puts away two or three plates while I labor over the first. He asks my dad about the details of the Rain Redirection System. My dad is only too happy to talk about the venting that keeps the plastic from inflating and the convex pleats that keep the plastic from filling up with water. Sturgis nods and takes it all in. It's pretty boring to me, but I already know a lot more about those things than I care to. Between the food and the conversation, it's a wonder I make it through dinner without going facedown in a pile of chopped fish and hash browns.
After dinner, I notice that Sturgis has unpacked his paper bags. He's lined up his paperbacks on the shelf I cleared for him, and in front of the books is a neat row of cassettes. The books mostly have dragons or spaceships on the covers. I think a few of them have dragons
and
spaceships. For that matter, so do a lot of the cassettes.
My baseball cards are in shoe boxes on top of the bookcase. I used to be obsessed with them, sorting them and resorting them and memorizing their details and making teams out of batches and pitting them against each other using dice and rules I don't remember. It's weird how you wake up one day and don't care as much anymore, but that's kind of
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