The Dirty Parts of the Bible by Sam Torode Page B

rattlers in Michigan.”
    A chill crawled up my spine.
    “But keep clear of the cacti, too. A jumpin’ cactus can reach right out and bite you. And I don’t care if you are kin—I ain’t gonna be the one to pull the needles out of your ass.”
    After lunch, we all packed into the truck for a tour of the farm. I was stuck in the middle, crunched between Uncle Will’s shoulders and Craw’s. The main crop used to be cotton, Wilburn explained, before the topsoil dried up and blew away. Henry Farms survived by diversifying. We drove past row after row of fruit- and nut-bearing trees—apple, pear, peach, plum, orange, grapefruit, walnut, pecan. Among apples alone, Wilburn pointed out McIntosh, Cortland, King David, Jonathan, Smokehouse, and a dozen other varieties. Picking apples—now that sounded like a breezy way to spend the next month while searching for Father’s money on the sly.
    Uncle Will showed us the common garden, which was shared by him and Millie, Will Junior and his wife, and the hired hands. We went by the small houses Craw and I had seen last night—it turned out that Will Junior and the others lived in them. As we drove around, I kept an eye peeled for anything resembling an abandoned well. I thought about asking, but didn’t want to arouse suspicion.
    When we came to an open field, Wilburn shut off the truck. “This,” he said, “is where you’ll be spending most of your time.”
    What? It was a bare plain, all dirt and grass with not a single tree in sight.
    Wilburn turned to Craw. “You got any experience handling bulls?”
    “Yes siree,” Craw said. “I’ve been dodging them all my life.”
    I nudged Craw. “I think he means cows—not cops.”
    “The orchard’s carried us through the depression,” Wilburn said, “but fruits and nuts are chump change compared to cattle. That’s where the real money is these days.” He kicked back against his truck and lit up a cigarette. “Right this morning, Will Junior’s checking out some bulls in Fort Worth. And I’ve got ten acres of pasture that needs to be fenced in before the first one arrives.”
    Putting up a fence would be more work than picking apples, but it still sounded easy enough. Of course, I had no idea how large an acre was. “Do you want us to do it right now?”
    Wilburn spit out a cloud of smoke and slapped my back. “Atta boy! With an attitude like that, you’ll go far. But truly, I’ll be happy if you finish by the first of July.”
     
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    Craw kept quiet for most of the tour—which was unusual for him. But he made up for it the next day when we started to work on the fence.
    As I unrolled a bale of barbed wire, trying not to slice my fingers, Craw sat beneath the shade of a pecan tree, chopping rough branches into smooth fence posts. He steadied the branches with his hook and swung a hatchet with his hand. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind by carpentry .”
    I rolled up my sleeves and took a few whacks at the earth with a post-hole digger. The metal blade bounced off the hard ground, sending up a little cloud of dust.
    After a while, I became aware of a constant buzz in the air. “What’s that noise? Sounds like an electrical line.”
    “Cicadas,” Craw said. “Also known as locusts. Or, as John the Baptist would say, lunch .”
    I laughed, surprised that Craw knew his Bible characters so well.
    We hacked and hammered all morning. By noon, Craw had carved five fence posts and I had stuck two of them in the ground. I rested on the end of my digger and squinted up at the black birds circling overhead.
    “Buzzards,” Craw said.
    After a few minutes, they swooped down to where I could see their gnarled, bald heads.
    “They’re waiting for us to die, aren’t they? So they can pick our carcasses clean.”
    Craw tossed another finished post on his pile. “You know, in all my years I’ve never encountered such pessimism in one so young.”
    “I don’t trust birds,” I said. “Not after what