Part 37 (2/2)

I know.

He looked around at the many folks staring at us. His eyes darted about wildly, not knowing what to make of all these people. His face seemed to suddenly cave in with grief and emotion. Keening suddenly in the back of his throat, he darted past the people, rushed for the door, and dashed down the hall.

I ran after him, not bothering to call his name.

He sideswiped an elderly woman, who was leaning on the arm of a grandson. She fell against the wall and her grandson gave me an angry look as I hurried by. Noah ran for the door and straight out into the broad daylight.

”Stop him!” I shouted as the people looked at us and did nothing.

Noah raced down the sidewalk and dashed pell-mell into the street.

I ran across the lawn after him, tripped suddenly on a sprinkler, and landed flat on my face on the concrete sidewalk. I felt my s.h.i.+rt rip. Pain hollered up and down the right side of my face. It was an ungracious thing to do, and a wash of embarra.s.sment swept through me. As if I needed an additional reason to feel self-conscious.

I sat up, wondering who had seen me, what had become of Noah.

”You all right?” a police deputy asked, hurrying down the sidewalk in my direction. He held out a hand, pulled me to my feet.

”My son ran off,” I said.

”Terry went after him,” the deputy a.s.sured me.

I hurried down the street and found the deputy trying to coax Noah back to the fold. He was being very uncooperative. The deputy held one of his hands, trying to pull him along. Like a stubborn mule, Noah had planted his feet and refused to move.

”I've got him,” I said, taking Noah in hand.

”He's a pistol,” the man said.

”Thanks.”

Noah pushed his face into my chest and sobbed.

Another cruiser pulled up, its lights flas.h.i.+ng, ”Union County Sheriff” written on the side of the door. Sheriff Johnson Crook got out of the car.

I walked Noah to my car, used Kleenex to wipe his nose. I adjusted his tie again. I tried to comb his hair with my fingers, then gave up. He stood there in tearful misery.

Why won't she talk to me? he demanded. he demanded.

She can't.

I don't understand.

She's gone.

But she's right in there.

She's gone. She died. She can't talk to you. She can't talk to anyone.

He lowered his eyes and stared fixedly at the ground, trying to puzzle this out.

I looked at my face in the driver side mirror. I had sc.r.a.ped a bunch of skin off. I had also ripped the sleeve of my s.h.i.+rt. The sight of it made me feel like a white-trash cracker from the trailer park.

Mama came over, face full of worry.

”I don't want to go back in there, Mama,” I said as I dabbed at my face with a handkerchief.

”Kids in h.e.l.l want the new iPhone,” she said.

”They don't want me in there,” I said, surprised at how hurt this made me. ”I'm tired of being looked at.”

”Since when did you you care about what people think?” she asked. ”Wiley Cantrell, of all people in the world, I never thought I'd hear you say care about what people think?” she asked. ”Wiley Cantrell, of all people in the world, I never thought I'd hear you say that that.”

I struggled to get hold of myself. I could not remember feeling so self-conscious, so out of place, so looked down on, so lacking in confidence in myself.

I felt like a fool.

”I can't go back in there,” I said.

Mama took my hand.

”I raised you to hold your head up, young man,” she said in a whisper. ”The Lord gave you a backbone because He wanted you to use it. So use use it. And if you won't do it for yourself, do it for your son.” it. And if you won't do it for yourself, do it for your son.”

Mrs. Warren came down the sidewalk looking for Noah.

”I'm so sorry,” she said. She put her fingers to her lips as if to stop herself from crying. ”Please come back inside. This is my daughter's funeral and my grandson will d.a.m.n well attend it.”

Mama took Noah's hand and we followed as Mrs. Warren led us back inside.

53) Nothing to say

I LISTENED LISTENED to KUDZU on the way home that evening, my mind filled with thoughts, images, impressions of that day. to KUDZU on the way home that evening, my mind filled with thoughts, images, impressions of that day.

It wasn't one of our better days, to be sure.

Noah sat on the pa.s.senger side, looking out the window, hands on his lap. I gave him a nudge to let him know I was looking at him. He ignored me.

The sun had gone down by the time we got home. Tonya had left a note on the door instructing me to call if I needed anything.

Noah went to his room and I followed. He wasn't interested in Xbox or watching a DVD.

I don't feel good, he said, turning to me. he said, turning to me.

<script>