Stories of Breece D'J Pancake Read Online Free PDF Page A

snapper. He’s got his stubby neck curved around, biting at the gaff. I lay him on the sand, and take out Pop’s knife. I step on the shell, and press hard. That fat neck gets skinny quick, and sticks way out. A little blood oozes from the gaff wound into the grit, but when I slice, a puddle forms.
    A voice says, “Get a dragon, Colly?”
    I shiver a little, and look up. It’s only the loansman standing on the creekbank in his tan suit. His face is splotched pink, and the sun is turning his glasses black.
    “I crave them now and again,” I say. I go on slitting gristle, skinning back the shell.
    “Aw, your daddy loved turtle meat,” the guy says.
    I listen to scratching cane leaves in the late sun. I dump the tripes into the pool, bag the rest, and head up the ford. I say, “What can I do for you?”
    This guy starts up: “I saw you from the road—just came down to see about my offer.”
    “I told you yesterday, Mr. Trent. It ain’t mine to sell.” I tone it down. I don’t want hard feelings. “You got to talk to Mom.”
    Blood drips from the poke to the dust. It makes dark paste. Trent pockets his hands, looks over the cane. A cloud blocks the sun, and my crop glows greenish in the shade.
    “This is about the last real farm left around here,” Trent says.
    “Blight’ll get what the dry left,” I say. I shift the sack to my free hand. I see I’m giving in. I’m letting this guy go and push me around.
    “How’s your mother getting along?” he says. I see no eyes behind his smoky glasses.
    “Pretty good,” I say. “She’s wanting to move to Akron.” I swing the sack a little toward Ohio, and spray some blood on Trent’s pants. “Sorry,” I say.
    “It’ll come out,” he says, but I hope not. I grin and watch the turkle’s mouth gape on the sand. “Well, why Akron?” he says. “Family there?”
    I nod. “Hers,” I say. “She’ll take you up on the offer.” This hot shadow saps me, and my voice is a whisper. I throw the sack to the floor plate, climb up to grind the starter. I feel better in a way I’ve never known. The hot metal seat burns through my jeans.
    “Saw Ginny at the post office,” this guy shouts. “She sure is a pretty.”
    I wave, almost smile, as I gear to lumber up the dirt road. I pass Trent’s dusty Lincoln, move away from my bitten cane. It can go now; the stale seed, the drought, the blight—it can go when she signs the papers. I know I will always be to blame, but it can’t just be my fault. “What about you?” I say. “Your side hurt all that morning, but you wouldn’t see no doctor. Nosir, you had to see that your dumb boy got the crop put proper in the ground.” I shut my trap to keep from talking like a fool.
    I stop my tractor on the terraced road to the barn and look back across the cane to the creekbed. Yesterday Trent said the bottoms would be filled with dirt. That will put the houses above flood, but it’ll raise the flood line. Under all those houses, my turkles will turn to stone. Our Herefords make rusty patches on the hill. I see Pop’s grave, and wonder if the new high waters will get over it.
    I watch the cattle play. A rain must be coming. A rain is always coming when cattle play. Sometimes they play for snow, but mostly it is rain. After Pop whipped the daylights out of me with that black snake, he hung it on a fence. But it didn’t rain. The cattle weren’t playing, and it didn’t rain, but I kept my mouth shut. The snake was bad enough, I didn’t want the belt too.
    I look a long time at that hill. My first time with Ginny was in the tree-cap of that hill. I think of how close we could be then, and maybe even now, I don’t know. I’d like to go with Ginny, fluff her hair in any other field. But I can see her in the post office. I bet she was sending postcards to some guy in Florida.
    I drive on to the barn, stop under the shed. I wipe sweat from my face with my sleeve, and see how the seams have slipped from my shoulders. If I