Color the Sidewalk for Me by Brandilyn Collins Read Free Book Online

and swifter with the spring runoff. “Be careful of that water,” Granddad had warned.
    I thought of Granddad as I tipped my head back against the rock and closed my eyes, seeing the black-red of my lids, smelling the rich scent of earthworms. Granddad was seventy-four now and slow-moving. Sometimes he needed to rest during our walks downtown to Tull’s, where he and his old friends Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins would yak the afternoon away in their chairs under the green awning, cold drinks sweating in their hands. On Saturdays he could drive down if Daddy or Mama didn’t need the car, but he didn’t like to. Much as he wouldn’t admit it, I think he was scared of having one of his “heart flares” behind the wheel. I used to love driving into Albertsville with him when I was little; he’d fly over the hills, pretending we were chasing the Germans out of Paris. But those days were gone. Even the lifelong besting feud between Granddad and Mr. Lewellyn, once energetic and conniving, had recently been reduced to playing checkers at our dining room table, crabbing over who was cheating.
    Mama was forever fussing over Granddad’s health until his ears turned red with annoyance. “I ain’t dead yet, Estelle!” he’d holler at her, and she’d back off. But when he bragged of his battles in the war, she’d turn a deaf ear. As for Granddad, it seemed the less he could do, the more he wanted to talk about those battles, clinging to the days when he was gallant and strong. Over the years the whole town had heard how he’d earned the three Bronze Star Medals that lay upon gold velvet in dark blue rectangle boxes on his bookcase. Visitors were always invited to view the famed stars hanging from their patriotically striped ribbons, along with the military insignia Granddad kept in a sandalwood box. The details of his first medal constituted his favorite story, about when he stealthily crossed the Volturno River in Italy under heavy enemy surveillance to scout out a German camp. He earned his second medal also in World War II by single-handedly shooting seven German soldiers before they could surround his ragtag group of men in a lethal “pocket.” And the third one he earned in Korea after risking his life to drag numerous wounded American soldiers from a perilous knoll to safety.
    My granddad was a wonderful Christian man, full of integrity. But he wasn’t afraid of confrontation if God led him to it. “Choose your battles carefully,” he always told me. “Then if you gotta fight, fight like the angel Michael.”
    The afternoon sun was making me drowsy. Abandoning the boulder, I sat on a log, leaning against an ancient tree. Kevy hadn’t gotten a single nibble. It was shortly after four o’clock—time to leave soon, but I couldn’t summon the energy. I was beginning to think I could curl up for a nap right there on the rocky riverbank. My head dipped and my jaw slackened. The world began to fall away . . .
    A sudden splash jerked my head up. Automatically I checked for Kevy. He was knee-deep in the river, holding his fishing pole high, his shoes on the riverbank, each one stuffed with a sock.
    â€œWhat are you doin’! Get back here right now!” I jumped to my feet.
    â€œI’m wadin’ over to Jake’s Rock,” he called. “Bet there’s plenty of fish around it.”
    Jake’s Rock had been named for Mr. Lewellyn years ago when he and Granddad, at age twelve, had held a spur-of-the-moment fishing contest, the loser having to sing a serenade under the window of an ugly girl chosen by the winner. Granddad had fished from the bank; Mr. Lewellyn had decided to sit on the huge boulder in the middle of the river. It was a perfect seat for fishing. Upstream its slope was gentle, offering an easy climb to the top, which was good and flat for sitting. The downstream side fell off abruptly—a great