Free Man in the Blue Moon by Michael Morris Page B

proclaimed. He couldn’t care less if Indians trekked four counties over to soak in the water. He saw no value in an artesian spring that was guarded by palmetto bushes, scrub oaks, and a vine-covered magnolia tree whose branches shaded ferns along the ravine.
    When she turned to walk back toward the house, Ella paused at the barn. The Little Dipper lined the sky above the barn door, and she held her breath, hoping to hear Lanier inside. She pictured him sleeping, his curly hair hanging from the top of the pallet. There in the night air, warmth covered her body. Lifting the collar of her robe, she wondered how she might sketch Lanier in slumber. Embarrassment and sensation confused her. She barely knew this man, this drifter, after all. He was a distant relative of her husband, she told herself, nothing more. He would help her until the timber was cut, and then he would be on his way. She had no business getting mixed up in his troubles. Funny, she thought, he’s already mixed up in mine.
    A bat swooped down and then jetted over the top of the barn, barely missing the rooster-shaped weather vane. Ella stared at the barn door. Even though she wanted to move away, she couldn’t. She could not walk away from the hope that Lanier Stillis was so distant from her husband that he might be a good man after all. She stood there for a while longer, toying with the notion that Lanier was the man he claimed to be. Whether she would admit it or not, Ella needed for him to be something more than just a mere man running from trouble.

6
    Keaton stood outside the one-room schoolhouse, hoping to avoid facing his teacher, Miss Neva Clarkson. Leaning against the peeling white fence that opened to the schoolyard, he picked at a piece of flaking paint and prayed that Macon would be one of the first ones to exit. The door swung open, and the Flander twins bounded down the steps. Keaton’s prayer, just like the one he prayed for his father to stop taking opium, was not answered. Watching the others walk toward the gate, Keaton pulled his cap down low. The last thing he needed was somebody asking questions.
    Marla Davis, a girl with a missing front tooth, stopped and looked at him. “How come you ain’t been at school?”
    “Been busy,” Keaton answered and looked up at the door, hoping to will Macon out of the schoolhouse.
    Red Kennedy stopped long enough to adjust the strap tied around the books he carried. “You mean you been busy cutting pines like a pulpwood ninny.”
    Marla laughed and covered her mouth. “Who’s that man staying at your house?”
    “My daddy’s cousin.” Keaton planted his hands in his pockets and looked back at the door.
    Red looked at Marla and laughed. “That’s what his mama tells him. She tells him that so that he won’t question why she’s got a man living there. Shacking up like white trash.”
    Just as Keaton balled his fist and took a step toward Red, Miss Clarkson stepped out of the door with Macon trailing behind her.
    “What’s this fuss?” Miss Clarkson called out. She had auburn hair and a round face that made her seem heavier than she was.
    “He was trying to pick a fight,” Red yelled.
    “Keaton Wallace. It’s not bad enough that you skip school, but you show up and cause trouble on top of it.”
    “No, ma’am,” Keaton stammered. “He was—”
    “He was picking a fight,” Red yelled again.
    “Enough.” Miss Clarkson swiped her hand across the gray skirt that she wore, and a mark of white chalk was left on the material. “Red, Marla . . . get on home.”
    The others wasted no time in leaving the schoolyard, but Keaton was reluctant to walk beyond the gate. Miss Clarkson motioned with her finger, and he slowly moved forward. Keaton could see into the school and tried to make out the cursive words written on the chalkboard. He feared that before the pines were cut he would forget everything he had learned and would be forced to repeat his grade.
    “What is this business