It was as though there was something more he wanted to say but couldn’t. Many times Coot wanted to ask if E. P. was his real father. He had suspicions that wouldn’t go away. But Coot never could build up the courage to ask anyone flat-out because he didn’t want to know. He wanted even less to be related to the big ugly man.

“Where would we go off to, Blake?”

The light from the moving lantern made dark shadows on Blake’s face. Blake leaned close. “You leave that to me.”

Coot let his mind wander toward the idea of never seeing E. P. again. He thought about what it would be like to be a normal fourteen-year-old who could play baseball, or go to school, or climb trees, or maybe even have a girlfriend. E. P. did not permit climbing trees. Or baseball. And girls were considered worse than whiskey.

“And we can go to baseball games?” asked Coot.

“Many as you want.”

“What if he catches us?”

“I just hope that fool tries.”

“He’d kill us, Blake. He’d really kill us.”

Blake removed the meat from Coot’s neck and touched his face. In some ways, Blake was the only friend Coot had ever known.

“Coot, you’re almost a man now. That means you gotta try to be brave, for me. Don’t mean you have to actually be brave. But being a man means you gotta try. Can you do that?”

Coot rolled this over the coals in his mind. He nodded.

“That’s more like it. Now, I want you to trust old Blake the Snake, Old Hoss.”

Old Hoss. Coot liked the way that sounded.

Eight
The Lovable Lunatic

Vern held the baby against him and smelled her hair. She was his favorite thing in the world. He had never seen hair so soft, so red, so thick that smelled so good. It was like somebody had rolled her in a field of daisies and let the flower smell get all over her. How could anything smell this good? he thought. Sometimes, though, the baby would make a grunting face, then poop on the person holding her. And that did not smell good.

Vern sat beside Paul on the tailgate. They both watched Mister Dreyfus inspect the white millhouse. Only a few minutes earlier, the last board had been painted. Vern had stayed up all night. When the sun poked over the trees, the white building looked orange.

It had taken a lot longer to build than Vern had thought it would. And even though Paul wouldn’t admit it, Vern knew it was because they were not young anymore. Vern had little streaks of white in his hair. And Paul was a full-blown old man, with the stiff walk and all.