Free Chinaberry by James Still Page B

“Come stay here at the Towerhouse with us and you'll fare better. We'll neglect you a little.”
    Ellafronia Cauldwell came into the room to say Ernest was having his dinner on the screened porch and would like to see me. Anson started to follow, but Lurie stayed him.
    â€œHey-o, Skybo!” Ernest greeted me with much cheer.
    Seeing Ernest aroused an emotion I hadn't expected. Before taking the trip west, I had never exchanged words with him. The poolroom he managed back home was off limits to youth, besides being rated a den of iniquity where men smoked cigars, spoke cuss words, gambled with cards, and probably drank liquor. A fifth-grade classmate reported passing Ernest's place once and heard somebody, perhaps having miscued a ball, shout “Damn!” I always glanced in furtively on the way to school and never saw anything untoward. This was my father's one vice, shooting pool. He was said to be a “mean” player.
    When I saw Ernest, the homesickness that had been packed away and unacknowledged inside of me arose like a ball in my throat, choking me. I could only manage a “Hey.” There came instantly to mind a stanza of the Alabama state song we used to sing in school, not even thinking about the words we knew so well by heart:
    Broad the Stream whose name thou bearest;
    Grand thy Bigbee rolls along;
    Fair thy Coosa-Tallapoosa
    Bold thy warrior, dark and strong.
    Goodlier than the land that Moses
    Climbed lone Nebo's mount to see,
    Alabama, Alabama,
    We will aye be true to thee!
    Ernest spoke up: “Aye, they're fattening you! How many pounds have you picked up?”
    â€œThree,” I said. Other words were like a foam in my mouth. I wanted to ask when we were going home, and I could not. I wanted to go home, and yet I didn't want to leave Anson and Lurie—particularly Lurie. It was a paradox too great for a thirteen-year-old to surmount.
    It turned out that my mother was writing me weekly, Ernest said, and my father had had an exchange of a couple of letters with Ernest, checking on me.
    Papa had wanted to know when Ernest was bringing me home, insisting on a date. Ernest had replied that he was back dealing with horses, back to the satisfactory days when he worked at a livery stable. He wanted to consolidate himself in his new job before asking for leave for a quick trip. But he would return. Moreover, if anything, I was being too well looked after, he told my father. He assured my parents that I was the cynosure of all eyes in the Anson Winters family and that my every step was trailed by the old Indian, who never allowed me out of his sight.
    The second letter from my father reminded Ernest that Chambers County schools opened in middle September. He didn't want me to miss a day. Ernest's reply was news to me. The Winterses would start me in a Robertson County school at about the same time. And he reminded my father of his several years of residing in Texas, of his longtime regret that he hadn't remained.
Much later I was to read that letter:
    You wanted this son of yours to experience Texas, the reason you wanted him to come with me. He's
experiencing
it in a fashion you'd never guess. Let him have it for a few more weeks. The only trouble will be, as it was with you, he'll never be plumb happy in Alabama if he stays in Texas too long. I'll try to get him returned before that happens.
    This was enough to mollify my father for a while. My mother was not happy about this, though. With all the children she already had to look after, and with more to come, she wanted them all where she could see them.
    Anson was chafing to leave when I returned to the living room, and during my absence Grandma was trying to convince him to let me stay overnight. As I walked in she was saying, “You'll be back here tomorrow anyway. Let him stay so I can talk to him, get better acquainted. He hasn't seen the colts, seen the place, looked around.”
    I just wanted to see the