Not-Just-Anybody Family Read Online Free PDF Page A

to be.”
    “Nope. No Blossom.”
    “She’s with the rodeo.”
    “Honey, everybody staying at this motel is with the rodeo.”
    “But this is my mom. She gave me this number.”
    He was horrified to hear his voice break on the word mom . Now the motel manager would think he was a child. If his mom did come, she would say, “Your little boy called. He sounded like he was crying.”
    In a mature, adult voice he said, “Well, if she does check in, would you tell her Vern called, and everything is all right here.”
    “I will, hon.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    He stood, hands in his pockets, staring down the highway. The shadows were getting longer. The traffic was getting sparse. Everybody was either home for supper or going home for supper but them.
    Maggie got to her feet. “I still think we ought to call.”
    Vern swirled around. Remembering the incomplete phone call made has eyes even harder. “I told you I can I handle it!”
    “Well, I’m the oldest and I ought to be the one to decide when we handle it and when we don’t.”
    “Look, you want to call—go ahead. Be my guest. Call.”
    At that moment he looked so much older than Maggie that the eleven months that separated them might as well have been eleven years. He stared at her with eyes that did not blink once.
    Maggie blinked seven or eight times. She said, “Vern, I can’t call. I don’t have any monnnnnney.”
    He turned and started walking. To Maggie it was the way John Wayne walked into the sunset when he wasn’t coming back. Quickly she got to her feet.
    “Wait for meeeeeee.”
    Vern kept walking.
    Maggie hopped on one foot to get her flip-flop adjusted. Then she ran down the warm asphalt road after him.

CHAPTER 8
Mud
    Every time Pap slammed on the brakes of the Chevrolet, four things happened. The tailgate dropped, the sun visors flopped down, the glove compartment opened, and Mud slid onto the floor.
    This time Mud was so surprised at the sudden stop that he struck the tender part of his throat on the door of the glove compartment. Then with a yelp of pain he slid to the worn floor.
    His throat felt as if something were caught inside, and he gagged-coughed a few times. He looked with interest at the small wad of spit he had coughed up on the floor. Then he jumped on the seat to look around.
    Pap was outside the truck. Mud jumped nimbly out the door and joined him. Pap paid no attention to Mud, but Mud was used to that. Pap knew he was there.
    The next few moments were beyond Mud’s ability to understand. There was a crash, a shot, and then a struggle that sent beer cans rolling down the street and Mud under the Chevrolet.
    When he realized some men were struggling with Pap, hurting him, he darted out to help. A kick from one of the policemen sent him back under the truck. Stray cans shot at him, scared him, sent him further back.
    He waited between the front wheels of the truck. He was panting with alarm, his ears flat on his broad head, his golden eyes wild.
    After a moment he crawled on his belly to the driver’s side of the truck. He thought it might be a good idea to get inside. The door had been closed.
    Still keeping close to the pavement, he went to the back of the truck. He looked out. He didn’t see Pap anywhere.
    He was getting ready to jump into the truck and lie down on a gunnysack when the tow truck arrived. As soon as the huge hook clanged under the truck’s bumper, Mud started running.
    He ran right down the middle of Sumter Avenue, on the yellow line, his ears flying behind him, his tail low. “That stupid dog’s going to get hit!”
    “Maybe he’s rabid!”
    “Someone ought to call the dogcatcher.”
    Mud kept running for five blocks until he came to an intersection, and then he turned left on a red light, causing curses and the squealing of brakes.
    Mud was usually cautious about traffic because he had been hit by a car when he was six weeks old. That’s how he had become Pap’s dog in the first