Up a Road Slowly Read Online Free PDF Page A

teeth out?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Just his eye. Not out, but I made it black.”
    Uncle Haskell shook his head. “What Mama would have done to any brat who might have messed me up like that.” He smiled to himself. “Dear Mama,” he said, “dear, dear Mama.”
    I got the impression that he wasn’t nearly as fond of Grandmother as the many “dears” might have indicated.
    â€œIf I ever have a boy, I’m going to see that he gets the blame for the things he does just as much as the girls do,” I said.
    â€œYou’re never going to get the chance to have a boy if you don’t do something about that truculent little chin of yours.” He got to his feet, hoisted the golf bag to his shoulder, and stooped to tweak my nose. “Accept the fact that this is a man’s world and learn how to play the game gracefully, my sweet.”
    I watched him as he strode off with his characteristically buoyant step into the shadows. It occurred to me that there was no golf course within five miles, and that if there were, it would be too dark at that hour for a game; moreover, I suddenly realized that there were no clubs in the brown bag over Uncle Haskell’s shoulder.
    When I went back to the house at twilight, Aunt Cordelia looked at me thoughtfully, and her voice was kinder than it had been when she passed judgment on me earlier.
    â€œThe boys certainly have their share of blame for this unfortunate episode, Julia,” she said. “I feel that I erred when I placed all the blame on you this afternoon.”
    My heart warmed to her in a sudden rush of love. I wondered if she had remembered how her mother always favored Uncle Haskell; I had a feeling that she would not have wanted to be like her mother if she could help it. Whatever it was, she had made me happy.
    â€œThat’s all right, Aunt Cordelia,” I said, smiling at her. “I forgive you.”

3
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    C hristopher and I discovered the secret of Uncle Haskell’s nocturnal golfing before the summer was over. About once a month we would see him step buoyantly into the shadowy woods some fine evening, often with a beret set jauntily upon his head, a golf bag without visible clubs slung over his shoulder.
    One night we trailed him with what we thought was perfect stealth, keeping clumps of trees and underbrush between us and him, moving slowly step by step until the three of us were at the banks of a creek that flowed between the woods and one of the wide fields that Mr. Peters cultivated for our aunt and uncle.
    Down at the creek, Uncle Haskell crossed the bridge to the south bank, where the growth of underbrush was heavier, and removed a spade from his golf bag. My heart flopped in sudden terror. A grave, I thought; Uncle Haskell was a monster who dug graves in the moist soil under the bushes, and buried Heaven knew what in the grim depths. Chris took my hand, and I could see the same horror in his face that must have been in mine.
    I don’t know whether it was our gasps that betrayed us or whether Uncle Haskell had been playing a cat-and-mouse game all along; at any rate when he removed the spade, he stuck it in the ground, leaned upon it a moment, and then chuckled as at some private joke.
    â€œScat, you little devils,” he said pleasantly enough, and we did not wait for further words. We ran breathlessly back through the woods and spent the rest of the evening speculating.
    When Uncle Haskell drove into town the next day, presumably for a replenishment of Le Vieux Corbeau , we took advantage of his absence to do some further sleuthing.
    We got Danny to join us that afternoon, and the three of us raced down to the creek to find what Uncle Haskell had been up to. It didn’t take long. The “graves” were quite shallow—Uncle Haskell would not be one to expend a great deal of energy in digging—and we were not long in unearthing what he had buried: