Free arkansastraveler by Earlene Fowler Page B

my head. “You know, the longer I think about it, the more sense it makes.”
    “My feeling exactly.”
    “How’re you and Elvia . . .” I started.
    He held up a hand, and I stopped talking.
    “Listen,” he said, his expression alarmed.
    The sound of angry voices was loud enough to filter through the closed attic window. We rushed over to the window and pushed it open.
    In front of the house, a small crowd had gathered on the wide front lawn. On the street a bright green, jacked-up truck idled, its loud muffler already familiar to me. Another car, an older, primer-gray Chevy Camaro, sat behind it.Boone, his arms crossed over his chest, talked to someone in the truck.
    “I bet it’s Grady Hunter’s son, Toby,” I said. “I saw him in that same truck at the 3B Cafe this morning.”
    “That little pissant,” Emory said. “He’s going to give Daddy another heart attack.” He turned and ran out of the attic with me close behind. Out front, we pushed through the small crowd of curious people to reach Boone. Toby Hunter’s face held the same mocking sneer as this afternoon. Quinton Tolliver stood behind Boone wearing a look that could only be described as lethal. Inside the two vehicles, I quickly counted seven young men.
    “Now, get on out of here,” Boone was saying. “We don’t want any trouble.”
    “Daddy, what’s going on?” Emory said, coming up behind his father. Emory was at least five inches taller than Boone, but shared his wiry, quick frame. Boone wasn’t a big man, but according to family stories, he’d whipped men twice his weight when he got riled, which wasn’t very often. Besides his blond good looks, Emory had inherited his father’s low-key, easygoing personality. But you didn’t want to make them mad. Ever. Because they believed in fighting until someone hit the ground unconscious or dead, and with a Southern man’s crazy arrogance, it never occurred to them that the person on the ground could be them.
    “I reckon this here is a public street,” Toby said. Next to him, hidden in the shadows of the truck, his friends laughed.
    “Toby,” Emory said, his voice easy but steel-edged, “just beat it. You’ve had your fun, now go on home and tell your daddy that you successfully harassed his opponent and caused a scene.”
    “I said I reckon this is a public street,” he repeated, ignoring Emory.
    Boone started toward the truck, one fist raised, but Emory caught his dad’s shoulder and stopped him.“Remember what the doctor said. You’re not supposed to be gettin’ riled up.”
    “That boy needs to be taught a lesson,” Boone said. “And if’n his daddy isn’t gonna teach him manners, I reckon it’s up to me.”
    “Daddy, just let me handle it,” Emory said, pushing in front of Boone.
    Emory walked up to the truck. “Now, Toby, I don’t want to have to call the police, but . . .”
    “You stupid asshole, my daddy owns the police in this town,” Toby said.
    I saw Emory tense and one hand close into a fist.
    A thin, powerful voice came out of the crowd. “Toby Maxwell Hunter, I done wiped your little white butt as a baby, and you’re actin’ about the same age as when I did it.” Miss DeLora, dressed in a pale blue chiffon dress, pushed in front of Emory. “Now you get on outta here and leave folks be. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ to hurt you and yours, so y’all got no business here.”
    “Looky there,” Toby said to the driver of the truck. “Emory’s wet nurse is standin’ up for him. Ain’t that sweet as can be.”
    “Miss DeLora, I can handle this,” Emory said, gently trying to pull her back.
    Amen had pushed her way through the crowd and stood beside her grandma. “Emory’s right, Grandma. Let’s go back into the house.”
    Miss DeLora jerked away from both of them and moved closer to the truck. “Now, get. I mean it, get on home.” She waved her hands at him as if he were a pesky cat.
    “Ain’t no black mammy gonna tell me what to