Free Sky of Stone by Homer Hickam Page B

human, it didn’t matter. Somehow, he’d made me feel better about the whole thing. “Good ol’ cat,” I whispered, fingering his tattered, grimy rug. “Fine fellow.”
    Still uneasy, I went upstairs and sat at my desk, skimming
Cannery Row,
trying to lose myself inside the written word. It didn’t work and I shelved it. I hoped Dad would come home and maybe we’d talk, about what I wasn’t certain, but it didn’t matter because he never did. Shortly after dark, the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Sharitz. “Your dad not home yet? You’re welcome to come over here for supper.”
    I thanked her but said I was fine. I explained that I was going to be in Coalwood for just one more night and after that I was heading for Myrtle Beach. “Tell Elsie we miss her,” Mrs. Sharitz said. “I’m feeding the dogs and keeping an eye on the place.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you for that.”
    “Sonny?”
    I suspected the real reason Mrs. Sharitz had called was about to be told. “Ma’am?”
    “I don’t think your dad should be alone,” she said. “Cecil is worried about him. I guess we all are—since Tuck.”
    I “yes ma’amed” her and left it at that because I thought she was wrong. My dad didn’t need anyone, and never had, as far as I knew. I hung up, feeling ever more doleful, and thought briefly about leaving for Myrtle Beach immediately but decided the smart thing to do was to wait for morning. The way that old Buick guzzled gasoline, I’d run out of it before I’d gotten much farther than Bluefield. It wasn’t like gas stations stayed open all night.
    The night wore on and I cast around for something to do. I remembered the Dugout, the teenage dance hall over in the town of War, two mountains and eight miles away. It was a Saturday night, and, after all, girls didn’t come much prettier than McDowell County girls. I could get in some dance practice for Myrtle Beach and maybe even meet somebody new. My enthusiasm for life went up several notches at the thought.
    I poked into my closet and found some khaki pants and a short-sleeved shirt that didn’t have too many wrinkles. They were all I needed for the Dugout. My brother was the one who’d been the fancy dresser. He had almost single-handedly kept open Belcher and Mooney’s men’s store in Welch during his high school years. Mom had tried to hand me down some of his things, but, besides being too large, they were always a bit too fine for me. I was always just a khaki cotton pants kind of boy.
    As I drove the Buick through the night, every curve in the mountain road came back to me. When I reached War, I parked by Big Creek High School and walked across the bridge to the Owl’s Nest Restaurant. The Dugout was in its basement and my excitement rose as I got nearer, but I discovered, to my vast disappointment, that it was dark and dead. I went inside the restaurant and talked to the counter maid. “Ed’s gone off to Florida for the summer,” she said of the Dugout’s disc jockey. “Be back in the fall, I expect. Maybe not, though. I heard he’s cleaning swimming pools down there. There’s good money in that. Say, ain’t you Sonny Hickam? Good on you for winning that science fair medal. Wanta cheeseburger?”
    “On the house?” I asked hopefully. My stomach was growling.
    She raised her eyebrows. “Sure, plus thirty-five cents.”
    “How much do they cost otherwise?”
    “Thirty-five cents.”
    I was starved so I took her up on her offer, poor as it was, and then trudged back to the Buick and drove to Coalwood, contemplating the taste of fresh West Virginia onions and life in general. I dawdled the Buick along. I was in no hurry to get anywhere because I had nowhere to go. “Sad times,” I said to myself, remembering the phrase Roy Lee had often used on me when I was down in the mouth about something.
    When I got back to Coalwood, I slowed at the mine and eased my way down Main Street. I figured Tag Farmer was around somewhere.