that stench,” I said.
Craw stepped into the middle of the road. “Have some faith, boy.” In the distance, a truck came into view. The closer it got, the faster it came—still, Craw didn’t budge. Finally, about twenty feet away from turning Craw into roadkill, the driver slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched and swerved. As he passed us, the driver leaned out the window shaking his fist and cursing.
Craw tipped his hat, then turned to me and shrugged. “If I’d have known he was a doctor, I wouldn’t have tried to stop him. He must be rushing to an emergency.”
“Doctor? What are you talking about?”
“Sure—didn’t you see the side of the truck? Doctor Pepper, Waco, Texas.”
I shook my head. ”All I saw was a soda pop bottle.“
“Some day, my boy, Doctor Pepper might come to your rescue.”
+ + +
Eventually, the Texans took pity on us. We hitched our first ride in an empty livestock trailer headed to the Fort Worth stockyards—which gave us our second opportunity in as many days to ride on a bed of straw and shit. From there, a produce truck carried us to Granbury. Then, a Ford wagon brought us just outside Glen Rose, right up to the Henry family farm.
As the sun sank behind the hills, we walked up a long dirt drive, past some small houses, rows of apple trees (the apples were still green, but we couldn’t resist picking a couple), animal pens, a rusty tractor, and a truck with “Henry Farms” on the door.
I looked over at Craw. “Remember—no one’s supposed know about what happened to my father.”
“My lips are sealed,” Craw said.
Rounding a patch of scrubby trees, we found the farmhouse—a two-story limestone building with a wooden porch. The white stone was beautiful against the wide purple sky, and lights were burning in the downstairs windows. My heart leapt.
Up till that moment, I hadn’t given any thought to how we looked. Two bums—one black, one white, and both so dirty you couldn’t tell which was which—drenched in sweat, clothes torn and burnt, reeking of cow shit and rotting fish, gnawing on stolen apples. How the hell was Wilburn supposed to know that I was his nephew?
Before we even reached the steps, a man in striped overalls kicked open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, rifle in hand. “No handouts here, fellas. You best be movin on.”
A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was taller and stronger than my father, with a ruddy, weathered face. “I’m looking for Mr. Henry,” I said.
Without saying a word, the man slowly raised the barrel of his gun.
“I’m his nephew,” I said. “Tobias Henry. From Michigan.”
Wilburn’s jaw dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he lowered his gun, shook my hand, and slapped my shoulder. “Damn it all if you ain’t Malachi’s spittin image . . .”
He turned and eyed Craw. “Now don’t tell me you’re kin, too.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Craw said with a bow. “Cornelius McGraw, carpenter extraordinaire, at your service.” It was the first time I ever heard his real name.
Uncle Will looked suspicious. “He’s my guide,” I said. “Without him, I’d have gotten killed—at least twice.”
Craw kept his hook in his coat pocket. He held out his left hand to shake, but Wilburn ignored it and turned back to me. “What in tarnation are you doing in Texas?”
“Well,” I said, “not much happens up in Remus, so Father sent me out to see his homeland and get some life experience.”
Uncle Will gave a sharp laugh. “Last I knew, Malachi didn’t have much use for life experience.”
“He thinks I’ve had it easy,” I said—and that was no lie. “He says it’s time I learned to work the land and earn my own keep, the way he did growing up.”
“The way he did?” Wilburn laughed again. “The only things Malachi ever worked at was singing songs and chasing skirts. Course, that was before he went
Craw stepped into the middle of the road. “Have some faith, boy.” In the distance, a truck came into view. The closer it got, the faster it came—still, Craw didn’t budge. Finally, about twenty feet away from turning Craw into roadkill, the driver slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched and swerved. As he passed us, the driver leaned out the window shaking his fist and cursing.
Craw tipped his hat, then turned to me and shrugged. “If I’d have known he was a doctor, I wouldn’t have tried to stop him. He must be rushing to an emergency.”
“Doctor? What are you talking about?”
“Sure—didn’t you see the side of the truck? Doctor Pepper, Waco, Texas.”
I shook my head. ”All I saw was a soda pop bottle.“
“Some day, my boy, Doctor Pepper might come to your rescue.”
+ + +
Eventually, the Texans took pity on us. We hitched our first ride in an empty livestock trailer headed to the Fort Worth stockyards—which gave us our second opportunity in as many days to ride on a bed of straw and shit. From there, a produce truck carried us to Granbury. Then, a Ford wagon brought us just outside Glen Rose, right up to the Henry family farm.
As the sun sank behind the hills, we walked up a long dirt drive, past some small houses, rows of apple trees (the apples were still green, but we couldn’t resist picking a couple), animal pens, a rusty tractor, and a truck with “Henry Farms” on the door.
I looked over at Craw. “Remember—no one’s supposed know about what happened to my father.”
“My lips are sealed,” Craw said.
Rounding a patch of scrubby trees, we found the farmhouse—a two-story limestone building with a wooden porch. The white stone was beautiful against the wide purple sky, and lights were burning in the downstairs windows. My heart leapt.
Up till that moment, I hadn’t given any thought to how we looked. Two bums—one black, one white, and both so dirty you couldn’t tell which was which—drenched in sweat, clothes torn and burnt, reeking of cow shit and rotting fish, gnawing on stolen apples. How the hell was Wilburn supposed to know that I was his nephew?
Before we even reached the steps, a man in striped overalls kicked open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, rifle in hand. “No handouts here, fellas. You best be movin on.”
A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was taller and stronger than my father, with a ruddy, weathered face. “I’m looking for Mr. Henry,” I said.
Without saying a word, the man slowly raised the barrel of his gun.
“I’m his nephew,” I said. “Tobias Henry. From Michigan.”
Wilburn’s jaw dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he lowered his gun, shook my hand, and slapped my shoulder. “Damn it all if you ain’t Malachi’s spittin image . . .”
He turned and eyed Craw. “Now don’t tell me you’re kin, too.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” Craw said with a bow. “Cornelius McGraw, carpenter extraordinaire, at your service.” It was the first time I ever heard his real name.
Uncle Will looked suspicious. “He’s my guide,” I said. “Without him, I’d have gotten killed—at least twice.”
Craw kept his hook in his coat pocket. He held out his left hand to shake, but Wilburn ignored it and turned back to me. “What in tarnation are you doing in Texas?”
“Well,” I said, “not much happens up in Remus, so Father sent me out to see his homeland and get some life experience.”
Uncle Will gave a sharp laugh. “Last I knew, Malachi didn’t have much use for life experience.”
“He thinks I’ve had it easy,” I said—and that was no lie. “He says it’s time I learned to work the land and earn my own keep, the way he did growing up.”
“The way he did?” Wilburn laughed again. “The only things Malachi ever worked at was singing songs and chasing skirts. Course, that was before he went
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