A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese Read Free Book Online Page B

that?”
    “Long time ago. Maybe not so long in Ralphie’s case.”
    “Neolithic. I like that word. Sounds soft and fuzzy.”
    “Soft and fuzzy? Kane! It was the Stone Age! The only thing soft and fuzzy about the Stone Age was our brains. That’s why we were goons. Brutes. Louts. Barbarians!” he said, arms flapping up and down in excitement.
    “Baseball players?” I asked timidly.
    “Baseball players!” he echoed thunderously, one fist pumpingat the air. “Yes! Baseball players!”
    So the news of the tournament was traumatic. “We’re gonna stink!” was Johnny’s prediction. “We’re gonna stink bad!”
    That’s why when our phone rang one Friday evening and a frantic Johnny was on the other end, it suprised me.
    “Josh, I got it! I got it!” he was saying wildly.
    “Got what?”
    “The answer!”
    “What answer?”
    “To baseball!”
    “You got the answer to baseball?”
    “Yes! Yes! The answer to baseball! I got it
right here!”
    “What is it?”
    “I can’t tell you over the
phone!
You gotta see it to believe it! I mean,
really!
Wow!”
    “Can you bring it to school?”
    “Are you
kidding?
I’ll pedal out to your place tomorrow and we’ll go over it. Bring it to
school?
Josh, we can’t share this with
anybody!”
    “Anybody?”
    “Well, maybe your parents, because, well, we’re kind of going to have to use your place to work this all out,” he said, calmer, conspiratorially. “But you can’t tell them right away! We gotta refine some things first. Where are you, anyway?”
    “Come straight out Highway 9. Can’t miss it. It runs in front of your dad’s store. Ride out until you come over this long sloping hill with an old baler sitting by the fence near the road. The next crossroad is ours. Turn left. You’ll see our place at the top of the hill going west.”
    “Got it. Long hill, baler, house on the hill. I’ll be there. And Josh?”
    “Yeah?”
    “This is all hush-hush.
Big
secret. Keep it under your hat.”
    “What do I tell my folks?”
    “Don’t tell ’em anything for now. Just say I’m coming to see your farm. Oh, yeah, got any paint?”
    “Paint?”
    “Yeah. Dig up some paint. See ya!”
    “Who was that?” my dad asked over the top of his
Farmers’ Almanac.
He read lots in the evenings while my mother knitted, quilted or did the small watercolor paintings she gave to friends and relatives.
    “Johnny,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea of keeping a secret from them.
    “Oh. And how is John?” my mother asked from her chair at the window.
    “He’s good,” I said. “He’s coming to visit tomorrow. Is that okay?”
    “That’s great!” my dad said and winked at my mother. “What are you two going to do?”
    “Probably look around the farm and stuff. You know.”
    “Sure. Has John ever been to a farm?” my mother asked, her hand busy with a stitch.
    “I don’t know. Probably not,” I said, wanting out of this conversation more than anything in my life at that moment.
    “Well, that’s just fine. Will he stay for supper? Dad can drive him back into town in the evening.”
    “Don’t know. I’ll ask when he gets here. Probably. Do we have any paint?”
    “What kind of paint, son?” my dad asked.
    “Don’t know. Any kind.”
    “There’s some in the tool shed we used to redo the stalls last spring. It’s whitewash, really. Why do you need paint?”
    “Well … I don’t. At least, not really. Just asking. Where in the shed?”
    “Top shelf. Sure seem interested in that paint for someone who doesn’t
really
need it,” he said and winked at my mother again, who smiled.
    “Yeah, well, big day tomorrow. Think I’ll turn in.”
    “Turn in? It’s only eight o’clock. It’s Friday,” my mother said, arching her eyebrows in mock surprise.
    “Yeah. Well, I’ll read or something till I fall asleep. G’night,” I said and moved to hug and kiss them before I headed up the stairs.
    “Good night, son. Prayers, remember,” my mother