Free Where the Broken Lie by Derek Rempfer

a few years ago, but Grandpa and Grandma Gaines live three blocks away from us. He’s a truck driver. Hauls cattle and pigs for the farmers around here. Mr. Patterson does, too, but Grandpa’s better. He gets up real early in the morning. Also, he’s real safe. His handle is “Snail” on account of how slow he drives. I don’t have a handle yet, but I’ll get one when I’m older and can help drive some loads for him.”
    “So, you’re going to be a truck driver when you grow up?” asked Mr. Cooper.
    “Oh, no sir,” I said. “That would only be part-time. To get money for college and stuff.”
    “Well, then, if you’re not going to be a truck driver, what are you going to be?”
    I could feel my forehead and eyebrows crinkle up as I thought seriously about that question for a minute, which was about a fifty-eight seconds longer than I had ever previously spent on that question.
    “Well, sir. I guess I’d like to be a baseball player, but I suppose I can’t count on that. Not too many people get to do that and they don’t even have baseball at the high school. So, if I can’t do that, I guess maybe a writer.”
    “A writer? You mean like an author?”
    “Yes, sir. I think I’d like to write stories and stuff. I won the Junior Writer’s award for 4th grade. Plus, I’ve written some poems my mom says are really good.”
    After saying this, I snuck a look over at Katie who I found smiling widely at me.
    “Poetry, huh?” said Mr. Cooper. “You mean like love poems? Stuff like that?”
    “Howard, if you’re done eating will you clear the table please,” interjected Mrs. Cooper. “Katie, why don’t you and Tucker go and play. It looks beautiful outside.”
    “We’re in the middle of a conversation here, Betty. I was going to ask Tuck to recite some of his poetry for us. How ‘bout that, Tuck, would you read us one of your poems?”
    “Another time,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Outside you two.”
    Stepping off the porch together, Katie said, “Sorry about my dad. He likes to tease is all.”
    “That’s okay. My dad does the same thing.”
    “He likes you, I can tell,” she said.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. Always calling him ‘sir’ like you did. That’s good. He likes that.”
    After a few minutes of walking in silence and kicking at rocks, Katie spoke up again.
    “So you write poetry, huh?
    “I don’t know. Some, I guess.”
    “Can I read it?”
    “Read it? Why? It’s not very good.”
    “That’s okay, I want to read it anyway. Besides, I’ll bet it’s a lot better than you say.”
    “I don’t think so, Katie.”
    “Well, can I read it anyway?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Oh, come on! Please!”
    I squirmed, looked around, stomach turned, look at her. I couldn’t believe what this little girl could get me to do.
    “Promise you won’t make fun?”
    “Promise.”
    “Promise not to tell anyone?”
    “Promise.”
    “Promise to like it?”
    She squeezed my arm above the elbow.
    “I already do.”

    It’s hard to keep secrets in old houses, what with all the moaning and groaning they do. What with all the tattletale creaking of wooden floors and old doors swinging on cranky hinges.
    Still, I manage to sneak out without waking Grandpa or Grandma Gaines.
    It’s well past midnight and I’m still buzzing on vodka when I step off the back porch and look up at that nosy old moon. It’s low in the sky that I almost feel as if I’m looking down at it, which makes me feel like God a little bit.
    I say a prayer of apology for this blasphemous thought, but then point out to God that He is the one who made me this way. And so I say another prayer of apology.
    Sin and redemption.
    Buried inside me there is an eleven-year-old boy who still loves Katie Cooper and he has something he wants me to do, so I let him be in charge for a while. He takes me to the garage and puts a pair of hedge clippers in my hand. Then he walks me through the Cooper’s backyard and into my Aunt Paula’s,