Child of the Mountains by Marilyn Sue Shank Page A

hearse. Pastor John rode wth Doc Smythson.
    We slipped and slided like that mud was ice. When we slid close to the edge of the hill a couple of times, I wondered iffen me and Uncle William and Aunt Ethel Mae would be joining BJ and Gran in Heaven. I looked out the window and saw the bottom of the hill far, far away. Uncle William stopped the car at one point that leveled off some and said, “You and Lydia get out and ride with Doc Smythson and Pastor John in the jeep.”
    “Ain’t no way you’re making me a widow,” Aunt Ethel Mae said. “I’m staying in the car with you. Iffen you go, I do, too.” I figured that meant I was also going with them, whether I wanted to or not. Uncle William rolled his eyes and started the car again. I clenched the door handle, with my heart pounding. Iffen we went over the hill, I was going to try to jump out.
    We finally got to the top. Aunt Ethel Mae and me shared a umbrella. I had to stand a lot closer to her than I wanted to. Uncle William didn’t use no umbrella. He told Aunt Ethel Mae they was sissified. The rain puddled on the brim of his hat and then dripped onto his shoulders. Doc Smythson and Pastor John both used umbrellas. I guess they decided they would rather be sissified than wet. Reverend Sanders had them people at the cemetery put up a little shelter that was just big enough for him to stand under.
    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Reverend Sanders said.At Gran’s funeral, Pastor John threw some dirt on the casket when he said them words. Reverend Sanders didn’t throw nothing. I figured he didn’t want to get his hands muddy.
    I thought about them words—
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
. They made my brother sound like nothing. Like he was and then he wasn’t. But I figured them words was just talking about his body. My brother—what was real and important about him—was alive. I knowed that to be true without a shadow of a doubt.
    Mama was in jail. BJ, Gran, and Daddy was all in Heaven. I don’t know why, on the rainiest day of my life, I felt them all there with me. For one little bit of time standing on that hill in the pouring-down rain, I did not feel solitary.

14

It’s about them mean girls again
.
    M ONDAY , D ECEMBER 14, 1953
    Today, right in front of the whole entire class, Mr. Hinkle read a story I wrote about Christmas at the make-do house in Paradise. I could feel my face burning, and I wanted to crawl underneath my desk. When he finished, Mr. Hinkle said, “Lydia, your use of imagery makes me feel as if I’m sitting at the table with you and your family. Well done.”
    I couldn’t help but smile a little when he said that, but I kept my eyes fixed on the ink hole in my desk. My cheeks felt hot when all them kids turned around to stare at me.
    Cora Lee, Maggie, and Penny was a-waiting for me when I stepped out the door for recess. “Child killer’s daughter is the teacher’s pet,” Maggie said as she bumped against me.
    “Imagery wasn’t the only thing you used in your story,” Penny told me. She grinned her rotten-tooth smile. “I counted four
ain’t
s.”
    Cora Lee tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to look at her, she folded her arms. “I have some news for you, stupid,” she said. “
Ain’t
ain’t a word ’cause
ain’t
ain’t in the dictionary.”
    She had lit a firecracker inside of me and I shoved her so hard that she fell on her backside.
    “How would you know?” I shouted. “You don’t even know how to spell
dictionary
, let alone use one.”
    Cora Lee tried to get up and I pushed her down again. “Mr. Hinkle, Mr. Hinkle,” she started to wail. I looked hard at them other two girls, and they stepped back away from me when Mr. Hinkle runned toward us.
    “What’s going on here?” he asked.
    “Lydia shoved me for no reason, Mr. Hinkle,” Cora Lee whimpered, sniffing to make him think she was a-crying. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
    “Is this true, Lydia?”
    I didn’t say nothing. I just