Grandpa’s Explanation
The town is a moonlit steeple far behind us. The only sound is the crunch of our feet, as they pick out ground barely visible to our eyes.
When Grandpa decides we’ve gone far enough, my body tumbles onto a grassy place beside the trail. I curl up, my head against General’s back.
I don’t recall another thing until sunlight bores through my eyelids, waking me. My head rests on the rolled-up tent, not General. David and Johnny are nestled between exposed tree roots, and Stonewall is tethered to a tree. No Grandpa. No dog.
My eye catches movement beyond the grove of trees we’re in. My breath catches in my throat until I realize it’s Grandpa, toting his rifle and walking the perimeter with General.
When I approach him, he spins around like a mama bear whose cubs are threatened. His eyes are blood-tinged, and the bags beneath them hang heavy. His arms enfold me, and General nuzzles for a scratch behind his ears.
“Wake the boys,” Grandpa says. “We’s headin’ on.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Ain’t got time. Gotta move.”
I plant my feet, my hands on my hips. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” Mama wouldn’t stand for such impudence, but I’m tired of being scared without knowing why.
“Wake the boys, and I’ll tell ya whilst we walk.”
Grandpa talks as we follow a trail that rambles uphill and down. “After I left ya last night, some’un follered me back ta the tent, hidin’ in doorways and alleys.”
“And that boy from the store come ta the tent whilst Mr. Kent was gone,” David says. “He wanted the money.”
“We told ‘im we didn’t have it,” Johnny adds. “He asked where you two was. I didn’t tell ‘im nothin’, just played dumb.”
“Considerable easy fer ya,” David teases.
“He were gone when I got there,” Grandpa continues. “But I scouted around, spotted him and another boy back of a tombstone, plottin’ ta steal our money. They wasn’t sure who had it. Didn’t know whether to rob me or break inta your hotel room.”
“I had that wedge under the door,” I say.
“Your wedge was good, green hardwood,” Grandpa says. “But the door ya shoved it under weren’t much more’n splinters and spit. And them walls was thin as spider webs. I knew we’d be splittin’ up with the young sprouts come mornin’, makin’ us all easier prey. So we hatched up a plan.”
“He told us right loud he was fixin’ ta bury the money and come back in a few days,” Johnny says. “Told us twice afore we knowed they was listenin’.”
“I let ‘em foller me ta the darkest part of the cemetery,” Grandpa takes up the story. “Kept my rifle close so’s they’d let me bury the money ‘stead’a tryin’ ta rob me. I walked slow, took my sweet time.”
“Whilst he were doin’ that, me and Davey was a-rollin’ up the tent, fixin’ ta leave,” Johnny adds.
“Soon’s I buried the money, we scooted ta the hotel ta git you,” Grandpa finishes.
“But you couldn’t bury it. I had it.”
“I wrapped one’a my bills ‘round a wad’a newspaper scraps from yesterday’s lunch. I reckoned they’d wait fer mornin’ light ta dig it up. Couldn’t take no chances though. Had ta skedaddle. By now, they know fer sure they was tricked, but they’s far behind. Nothin’ ta fear.”
He stops walking. “And this is a right nice place for our noon meal.” We stand in a maple grove, where a creek splashes over a rock shelf.
I set down the suitcase. “This is the same place we ate yesterday.”
Grandpa grins. “Danged if it ain’t.”
Your husband is a right clever man. I laugh when I think of that greedy Rawley digging up what he thinks is a fortune, and finding only one dollar and some butter-smeared newspaper. I reckon his chaw will fall clean out of his mouth.
Since Grandpa whittled that door wedge, he must have suspected trouble long before it came. Might be I wouldn’t have been so scared if he’d told me. Was he always so tight-lipped?
Virginia Lee Kent
