The Road to Memphis by Mildred D. Taylor Read Free Book Online

workin’ on that railroad most the year, y’all always was close. Used to see y’all talkin’ and jus’ a-laughin’ with each other.” He clung to the wheel. “All y’all’s close. I done always been admirin’ of that . . . .”
    Stacey thumped his hand on the dashboard, and his silence accentuated his awkwardness at Jeremy’s confidences.
    Suddenly Jeremy released the wheel and sat back, grinning. “’member that time I give you that old wind pipe I done made? Give it to you one Christmas . . . back . . . oh . . . near to eight, ten years ago now.”
    Stacey smiled. “Yeah . . . I remember. Still got it.”
    “You don’t say!” Jeremy laughed with delight. “Thought it would’ve been rotted away by now!”
    Stacey shrugged. “Always keep things.”
    “What it sound like?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t blown it in a spell.”
    “But you say you still got it, huh?”
    “Yeah . . . I still got it.”
    “How ’bout that?” Jeremy exclaimed, sounding childlike happy. “How ’bout that?” Then he looked again at the pond, rested his arm once more on the wheel, and was silent.
    In that silence I left the tree and moved away, back toward the house. Jeremy had seemed so happy about Stacey still having that wind pipe, and Stacey hadn’t told him that he had put that wind pipe away in a box under his bed that same Christmas Jeremy had given it to him and had not played it since, or at least to my knowledge he hadn’t. I certainly hadn’t seen it again.
    It was some time before Jeremy and Stacey came back up the drive. When they did, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I were waiting at the barn. Stacey was again at the wheel. He parked the car, and as he and Jeremy got out Jeremy looked fondly at the Ford and noticed mud on the newly cleaned tires. Jeremy frowned, then called to Little Man. “’Ey, Clayton, hand me a rag, will ya?”
    Little Man went to the backyard where the newly washedchammies were hung, returned with a couple, and tossed one to Jeremy, who stooped by the front wheel to wipe off the mud. Stacey took the other chammy and told Christopher-John to pull up some water from the well. Then, with Jeremy’s help this time, we again wiped down the car. By the time we finished, the car was gleaming once more, and all five of us stepped back proudly to admire our work.
    It was then that Papa came home.
    He drove the truck up the drive and parked it behind the Ford and got out. Papa was a tall man, lanky, with pecan-brown skin and with a way about him that demanded respect. The boys and I hurried over to greet him. Jeremy, though, backed away, away from the car, and us.
    “Well, see you made it home,” Papa said to Stacey.
    “Yes, sir, I did,” Stacey returned; then the two hugged in greeting.
    With his arm still around Stacey, Papa nodded to Jeremy but did not speak his name. Jeremy nodded back; then, looking like that awkward little boy from years ago, he moved toward the road. “Best I be gettin’ on home now . . . . Ma’s most likely got supper waitin’.”
    Stacey went over to him. “Well, we thank you for coming.”
    “No matter.” Jeremy pushed his hands into his pants’ pockets, glanced at Papa, and looked again at Stacey. “When—when you going back up to Jackson?”
    “Tomorrow sometime.”
    “Well, I don’t see ya, safe trip to y’all.”
    “Thank you.”
    He nodded farewell to the rest of us, took a few steps, and turned. “Stacey, it’s a fine car, all right. Gonna remember that ride.”
    Stacey nodded. “I’ll . . . I’ll be remembering it too . . . .”
    Jeremy nodded again, glanced at Papa once more, then walked down the drive, hands stuffed in his pockets and bouncing on the soles of his feet. Papa watched him, his eyes disapproving. When Jeremy was gone, walking down the road past the cotton fields and out of our hearing, Papa turned to Stacey. “What was he doing here?” he asked quietly.
    Stacey looked after