Free The Right Side of Wrong by Reavis Wortham Page B

liked to be laughed at.
    I noticed Uncle Cody wasn’t wearing his boots. He had on a pair of brogans like Grandpa’s everyday shoes, jeans, and a work shirt. He was also wearing his Colt .45 automatic pistol. Without saying anything, Uncle Cody threw a load of shingles up on his shoulder and came up the ladder.
    â€œYou don’t need to be up here,” Mr. Bell said. “I doubt you’re healed up enough yet.”
    â€œIt’s all right. I’ll take it easy.” Uncle Cody must have seen the funny look on my face. “We know each other. Mr. Bell came by the hospital more times than I can count, and we’ve visited a bunch since then.”
    â€œI want to help,” Pepper said.
    Uncle Cody waved a hand. “Come on up here.”
    The four of us worked out a system where Pepper and I laid the shingles straight and the men pounded the roofing nails in with one or two hits each. We were a good team and the whole thing moved quickly.
    Even though we were busy, every now and then I’d see Uncle Cody kneeling on the roof, looking all around from our high perch, as if checking for something. Then I realized why he was still wearing his .45 while we worked, because he still wasn’t sure if the people who shot at him were coming back to finish the job.
    You couldn’t see much from our perch, parts of the highway through the trees to the north and that’s about all. The other three directions were nothing but woods. There could have been a booger-bear sneaking up on us and we’d have never known it.
    We could hear, though. Cars swooshed past on the highway, mourning dove cooed from the trees, and quail called from the hidden pastures and meadows. Cows were always mooing not far away, but we didn’t pay them any mind.
    The country-style roof only had two sides, angling up from the porch to the ridgeline, and then down the other side. It was simple work, and the day finally warmed up enough to be called hot.
    Before you knew it, we were finished with the front slope and back on the ground.
    Mr. Bell picked up a few short pieces of lumber and pitched them into the fire. “I sure appreciate y’all’s help. Once the other side is finished, I can get started on the inside.”
    Uncle Cody wiped his sweaty face with a bandana, reminding me of Grandpa’s habits. “Well, you can’t work on an empty stomach. Kids, get in the back of the truck and you climb in up front with me, Mr. Bell. It’s dinner time and I ’magine Miss Becky has the table set.”
    â€œWell, I…”
    â€œShe’s expecting us.”
    â€œIn that case, let me get my hat.”
    I was hungry all right, so Pepper and I climbed over the El Camino’s tailgate and we drove the short distance to the house.
    Uncle Cody was right. Dinner was ready when we got there, and I smelled it all the way out in the yard. The table was loaded with my favorites: creamed peas, pinto beans, green beans, stewed potatoes, creamed corn, chicken, chicken fried steak, and homemade biscuits.
    Mr. Bell took his hat off when he walked into the steamy kitchen and Miss Becky hugged him like he was kinfolk, even though she’d never laid eyes on him until that minute. I guess him saving Uncle Cody made him part of the family, and he settled right in.
    Grandpa was up at the barn and came in right behind us. He was glad Mr. Bell was there, because he was grinning from ear to ear.
    â€œSit right there at the other end of the table, Tom.” Grandpa settled into his chair at the head and we filled the rest. There wasn’t much talking, because we were all hungry. Mr. Tom put away more than his share. He didn’t shame us, though. We all ate like field hands too. Shingling is hard work, and I didn’t realize how hungry I was until we dug in.
    As usual, the phone rang halfway through dinner and I thought Grandpa was gonna throw his fork at it. Miss Becky hurried into the living